


Come with me

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Post-Episode: s01e08 Day Trip, Season 1, Smut, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: In which Bellamy invites Clarke to leave with him at the end of Day Trip.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 321
Collections: Bellarke smut





	Come with me

**Author's Note:**

> A completely unnecessary short fic combining a selection of prompts/requests/ideas found on Twitter and in reviews over the last week or so - if any of those ideas came from you, then thank you!

It was Bellamy who initiated the kiss. Clarke wants that on record – she was just sitting next to this tree, perfectly innocent, taking some deep breaths and waiting for the last of the wooziness to clear from her head. And staring at his lips. But she doesn't think she can be blamed for that. She's pretty convinced that _anyone_ with any sense would have been looking at his lips, given the circumstances. And yeah, if she's being honest she might have leaned in just a little, but her point stands. This was Bellamy's idea.

That's not to say she's never had the same idea, in a more general sense. She's been sort of idly wondering what his lips might feel like ever since she first saw him smirking beside that dropship door. And she certainly found herself thinking about it in a rather more _immediate_ sense earlier today when he was teaching her how to shoot that rifle and he just had to go and stare at her in that almost _hungry_ way that did funny things to her insides - or maybe that was just the jobi nuts.

OK, so maybe she's not entirely blameless in the matter. But it obviously wasn't her who _initiated_ this, because she's not that stupid. She knows that this man takes an endless string of women to his tent, understands him well enough to have worked out that making them feel good helps him to forget the many reasons he has to feel bad. She knows that he uses their groans to overwrite the memories of his mother's screams. She knows, with everything that is in her, that kissing Bellamy Blake is a recipe for trouble.

But somehow that doesn't seem to matter right now, as his warm lips move against hers and now his tongue is easing into her mouth. And then she starts getting a bit braver, too, tangling a hand in his hair, and next thing she knows his fingers are tracing lines over the bare skin where her shirt has ridden up and she can't help but feel that the pair of them seem to be getting a bit carried away.

She pulls back when he starts actually panting into her mouth, just far enough to put a bit of a brake on things. Not because it isn't the hottest thing she's ever experienced – to be clear, it absolutely _is_ – but because she can't quite switch off that infuriatingly rational voice in the back of her head whispering that this is a frankly terrible idea.

"What are we doing?" She asks, because questioning anything and everything seems to have become her thing, recently.

She's expecting quite a straightforward response to that. She figures he'll pull away, with a bit of a smirk, and get on with seducing some other woman back at camp.

She should know better than that. She should have noticed, already, that he takes great delight in pulling the rug out from under her feet.

"Come with me." He whispers, lips still a hair's breadth from hers, and it is somehow equal parts uncertain question and confident instruction. It embodies, perfectly, the bundle of contradictions that is Bellamy.

She can't. Of course she can't. She's pretty certain the camp will cease to function if even one of them leaves, let alone if they both decide to take off and run away from their responsibilities. And she's not about to have her mind changed by the fact he's started kissing her again, and she's certainly not going to be swayed by the sheer tenderness with which he cradles her cheek as he brushes his lips much more gently, now, across her own.

But when he gets to his feet, and hoists his pack over his shoulder, and turns to her with an outstretched hand, she finds that she goes with him anyway. She simply cannot watch him walk into the woods alone.

…...

Clarke knows that she needs to head back to camp. They've had a pleasant evening walk in the forest, meandering through the undergrowth in companionable silence, and she finds her head growing clearer with every mile they put between themselves and Dax, every minute they put between themselves and their last handful of Jobi nuts. So she understands, now, that this excursion cannot last forever.

But she's going to stay for the sex, first. That may seem like a bit of a leap of logic, but she's pretty certain there's going to be some – he's had this look in his eye ever since that kiss – and it would seem rude to leave before he's shown her what he's got. And anyway, there must be a reason everyone's raving about him, back at camp, and she sees no good reason to deny herself. As long as she gets back in time to check everything's OK with the kids, she figures she's allowed to live a little.

At last, he stops walking, turns to face her and backs her against a tree. And then his lips are crashing against hers, and his hand is gripping her hip, and she gets the feeling that this is going to be good.

It's almost _too_ good, as it turns out. She's perfectly happy, one moment, tangling her tongue with his and digging her fingernails into his butt cheeks through his clothes, and imagining that this will play out in a fairly straightforward sort of stripping-and-screwing kind of a way. But then, all at once, he is tugging her trousers and underwear down her legs and falling to his knees and then his mouth is on her and – well, this is not quite what she had planned.

She mews a little, caught embarrassingly, arousingly off-guard, and she feels him muffle an arrogant chuckle against her. He pulls away just long enough to ask if she's all good, and by way of response she tells him to get the hell on with it, and for once in his life he does as she asks without argument. And she knows, somehow, in the back of her mind that this is a terrible idea, that any psychiatrist worth their salt would have a field day at the notion that the pair of them are running away from hallucinations and guilt by doing _this_. But as it is, she's not a psychiatrist but a half-trained doctor, and Bellamy's mouth might actually be magic, and before she's anywhere near talking herself out of it she's orgasming so hard her hip flexors actually _hurt_.

She reaches for him, then, and decides to get on with that stripping-and-screwing she was looking forward to earlier. The problem with Bellamy, it seems to her, is that he's wearing far too many clothes, so she puts that right and then ditches her own shirt to boot. He deals with her bra with more efficiency than finesse, and then she's having full on _Earth-sex_ in the truest sense of the word as a broken twig digs into her shoulder blade and it occurs to her that she'll be picking leaves out of her hair for _weeks_.

It is not long before she feels him teetering close to the edge, as he hoists her legs higher round his waist and gasps out irregular breaths into her mouth between kisses. She's never really been into the sheer messiness of sex before, always thought it a bit undignified, but she's beginning to see that it's worth it. There is something seriously hot about the utter chaos as they lose control together.

"Come for me." He pants against her ear.

She gives a breathy laugh at that. She has no interest in doing anything _for_ him. And she has never followed an instruction of his before, and she has no intention of starting to do so now. But when, mere moments later, he groans and thrusts against her one last time, she is more than willing to let herself go, too. Because coming _with_ him, together, is rather more her style.

He stays inside her for a couple of minutes, draws swirling patterns on her skin and dusts kisses over her cheeks. And she has no objection to that at all, really, is perfectly happy to stay put. The evening is chilly, sure, but his body is warm and she's surprisingly comfortable considering that sharp stick is still in place beneath her shoulder blade.

When he pulls away, therefore, she is both cold and a little disappointed. Apart from anything else, she figures her time is now up. That was the deal she had made with herself, that she would stay for the sex, and then she would go back to camp and get on with doing her duty.

"We have to go back." She murmurs, staring out at the dark trees. "You know we do. They won't survive without us. And I know you've hit a rough patch with your sister but you can't seriously be considering leaving her to -"

"I know." He interrupts, leaning up against her. "We will. But – can we stay out here just for tonight?"

She nods, once, and drops her head to rest on his shoulder.

…...

There is little hysteria about their absence when they return to camp. This makes sense, Clarke supposes, because the kids have no way of knowing that their leaders briefly considered running away and abandoning them. But it is strange, all the same, to carry around with her this secret, shared only with Bellamy, that they came so close to leaving them to their own devices.

So it is that she gets back into her normal routine. She tends to minor injuries. She organises foraging parties. She practises, very carefully, _not_ checking out Bellamy when he wanders round the camp shirtless.

It's important that she works on that. That screw in the forest – and the night of cuddling that followed it – were a one-time thing, and it is essential for the good of their people that the two of them continue to function as a team without any awkwardness. They discuss the planned hunting parties politely, and she thanks him with a tone carefully devoid of excess warmth when he takes the following night shift on guard duty. And she ignores, with great diligence, the sight of him leading Bree into his tent on the night after that.

The next day dawns and she potters around her improvised dropship med bay. Finn's wound is more or less healed, now, and she's not quite sure why he still comes for check-ups so often, nor why Raven feels the need to follow him every time he does.

OK, she _is_ sure. But she tries not to think about it.

But, anyway, Finn is here, reclining on an improvised bed and rolling up his shirt and inviting her to _take a look, Princess_ , and she sort of wants to scream.

Then Bellamy walks in, and she nearly does scream. Because why oh why is he wearing a T shirt that is obviously a size too small for him, and that reveals the breadth of his shoulders in almost obscene detail? And why is he wearing, too, that cocky grin and tousled hairstyle, and carrying that rifle with such infuriating _confidence_?

"Princess." He nods at her in greeting. "Finn. Raven."

"Bellamy." She keeps her tone light, wonders what logistical question they are to have a polite discussion of now.

"I'm going hunting." He announces, meeting her eye with an expression she cannot quite read. "Come with me?"

She's not sure what this is about. She's terrible at hunting, and he knows it. Does he maybe want to talk to her about some important matter of camp management, perhaps ask what she thinks of that row between Mbege and Stirling without anyone else listening in? Yes, it must be something like that.

"Yeah." She agrees easily, gestures to Finn to cover his goddamn stomach. "Let's go."

With that, she leads the way out of the dropship, and then through the gates of the camp.

They walk in silence for several minutes, but it is not an oppressive silence. She knows that Bellamy will ask her opinion on whatever it is that's bothering him when he feels ready, and in the meantime it is a mild day and she feels safe with his warm bulk and competent shooting skills at her side. Between that and her own quick-thinking, she thinks they're probably about as comfortable out here as any two young people raised in a tin can in the sky could be.

She expresses as much to him, daring to break the silence.

"Something like that." He agrees, then sucks in an audible breath. "Thanks for coming out with me. I just – I needed to get out of camp, and after last time – I thought you might understand."

She jumps a little. That is not how she expected the conversation to go, but she senses that he will be uncomfortable if she voices her surprise.

"I get that." She says instead. "It's good to get away from it for a bit."

He nods, quiet, eyes fixed on the trees.

They walk a little further, neither speaking, Bellamy's eyes set ahead, Clarke's on the ground. It isn't long before she spots the tracks of what she thinks might be a deer, and points them out to him.

"Look." She gestures at the tracks. "Venison for dinner? We should go after it."

He gives a strained laugh. "Clarke. You're terrible at tracking and I'm not much better. And they've already brought in five carcasses today."

"Then why are we out here?" She is beyond confused.

"I just told you." He mutters, eyes still boring holes in a tree trunk some way in front of them. "I needed to get out of camp and I wanted you to come with me."

Well, yes. He did just tell her that, she supposes, but she hadn't realised that was actually the reason they were here. Did he really invent a fake hunting expedition just to wander through some trees with her? Are they friends now? That can't be true, not when he's barely spoken to her since they -

Oh. Well, now. That makes a lot more sense.

"If you wanted to get in my pants again you could have just asked." She tells him, a little annoyed.

He stumbles over a tree root. "It's not like that, Clarke." He sounds irritated with her, now. "I just had another row with O and last time I wanted to leave you came with me and helped me find my way home. It wasn't all about the sex."

"It was _partly_ about the sex." She doesn't bother phrasing it as a question.

He stops walking, then, and wheels round to face her. "It really wasn't like that. I wanted to get away from it all for the day, and I thought you'd understand that, Clarke." His voice grows steadily louder. "I thought from what I saw the other day that you got it, that it _sucks_ that we're stuck in this situation and that sometimes it all gets a bit too much and -"

She cuts him off with a kiss, swallows down his frustration, breathes new hope into his stunned, gaping mouth. He recovers soon enough, though, backs her up against a nearby tree and grasps at her shoulders, kissing her ever more deeply and knocking her head against hard wood.

She stays put for a while, actually, stays pushed up against that tree. She stays there while he tugs impatiently at her clothing, stays there while he teases her nipples with surprising gentleness. She stays there, too, while he hooks her legs around him and thrusts inside of her, and enjoys the security of his firm arms wrapped tight around her.

Only when they are both done, and trying to remember how to breathe, does she slide slowly down to the floor, scratching her back against rough bark, until she sits in an undignified heap amongst the roots.

…...

When he asks her to come with him the next time, she is not surprised. He even goes as far as to explain that he's going hunting because he heard she's annoyed with Fox, and that makes the situation clearer to her. So it is that she nods, and risks a little provocative grin at him, and then says that a hunting trip sounds like just the thing.

Another three days pass, and another row with his sister. It has been dark for hours and Octavia has only just arrived back at camp, and Bellamy is livid with concern and she is livid with affronted pride and things are threatening to get a bit out of hand. So Clarke walks up to his side, and tells him that she desperately needs to go foraging for a particular herb that grows in the moonlight, and asks if he wants to come with her.

He does. Of course he does.

"I'm guessing there's no herb?" He asks when they are scarcely fifty feet out of the gate.

"No herb." She confirms, a strange sense of guilt starting to set in. It doesn't seem right, somehow, to take advantage of the fact that fingering her into a quivering mess distracts him from his guilt and makes him feel like less of a monster.

She shakes her head, settles on a pragmatic solution. "Want me to suck you off?"

When he spills over the back of her throat, some minutes later, she fears that they might be able to hear him groan even back at the camp.

…...

Their timing is not always perfect, of course. They're only human, so coming together is not always on the cards. And they haven't exactly been practising long enough to guarantee consistently simultaneous orgasms.

They don't quite line up on Unity Day, for example. Clarke is over half way to tipsy – she doesn't mind admitting it – but Bellamy seems surprisingly sober as he walks up behind her and whispers in her ear.

"Dance with me, Princess?"

Other people are dancing, it is true, to the rhythm of assorted percussion noises that a couple of the delinquents are making with a collection of improvised instruments. But she feels a bit uncomfortable, somehow, at the idea that the two of them might appear to be on good terms in front of other actual people.

"What if people see?"

"People will see." He smirks. "There are a lot of people here, people will _definitely_ see."

"I just meant that – you know – what if they think that we're..."

"Dancing? Screwing? Taking long walks in the woods together?"

"Yeah. That."

"They can think what they like." He shrugs. "It doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"

Somehow, now that he's said that, it doesn't bother her any more. So it is that they dance a little, but before long her alcohol consumption is getting the better of her and she can't stop thinking about his mouth and his hands and his butt and – and really everything about him, actually, and suddenly she is dragging him out of camp by the hand and towards nowhere in particular.

"Where are we going, Princess?" He's still wearing that smirk.

"Nowhere. But you're coming with me." She informs him.

So, yeah, she's already aroused beyond belief by the time they even leave the camp, and breathing heavily almost the moment they start kissing, so it should come as no surprise that she comes within minutes of him starting to screw her in earnest.

He pauses those delicious strokes of his hips, and cocks an eyebrow at her, confused.

"You OK, Clarke?"

"Yeah." She's a bit embarrassed now, somehow. "Yeah, I'm great. Keep going."

He still looks confused. "You sure?"

"Round two sounds like a plan." She tries to laugh about it, wonders if he might be judging her for being quite so obviously _gone_ for him.

But then he starts telling her she _feels so good around his cock_ , and adding the occasional comment that she's _so damn hot_ , and she decides he's probably a bit too preoccupied with all that to bother judging her for anything at all, really.

…...

So that's how it is. They have sex, even though it's a terrible idea, even thought she _knows_ that he's literally using her orgasms to boost his ego and soothe his guilt. They go on hunting trips, but consistently return without so much as a squirrel, and no one ever comments on it. Raven does quirk an eyebrow at them, once, but seems disinclined to complain, and so they carrying on coming up against trees and sprawled amongst leaves and even, once, in that bunker filled with memories of Finn that she is so keen to erase.

It almost works, actually. That's the thing about this arrangement with Bellamy, is that it _almost_ works on a rather consistent basis. It is almost like feeling accepted, and supported, and _loved._ They look out for one another, fabricate invitations to go out into the forest whenever they can read a bad mood brewing, and since Unity Day they have been increasingly relaxed about showing the kids that they get on pretty well, too.

But there is nothing more to it than that. And Clarke finds herself wishing that there was, finds herself wishing it so much that it _hurts_. And that sucks, really, because she's pretty sure that he's still far from attached to her, that she's just a respected colleague and a warm body. But somehow he's gone and got under her skin, with that surprisingly sensitive way in which he senses that she needs to take a break, and ushers her out of the camp, and makes her feel good about herself. He's fantastically caring for such an ass.

He proves that to her when the fever hits, when he catches her in his arms and carries her into the dropship. She tries to send him away, tries to get him to take the kids and run, but the stupidly kind idiot isn't having any of it.

"I'm not going anywhere unless you're well enough to come with me." He tells her, taking a seat by her improvised bed and wrapping her hand in his own.

She sort of wants to reply, but she's too weak and the fever is stealing her last threads of reason. So it is that she slides gracelessly into sleep, and her last coherent thought is of hoping he'll stay by her side.

He isn't by her side when she wakes up, and she breathes a long sigh of resignation. This is surely proof, if any were needed, that he doesn't feel quite as fond of her as she does of him, but she supposes that shouldn't be her priority right now. She ought to get on with looking after the patients she couldn't care for while she was ill, and ought to do what she can to help the camp through this crisis.

She makes it into a sitting position and looks around her.

Then she sees who is curled up on the pallet just behind her, and freezes. Because there he is, that's Bellamy, face a mess of dried blood, breathing noisily through an evidently parched throat. Without allowing herself to over-analyse her concern, she shuffles over to him and takes his hand.

"Bellamy?" She murmurs, rather worried as to why his breath is rattling in quite that way. It sounds like what she remembers hearing in the kids who died, and Bellamy can't die, no way. She simply won't allow it.

"Hey there, Princess." He peers up at her through tired eyes, squeezes her hand weakly with his own.

"You should drink some water." She encourages him.

He nods, somewhat pathetically, and allows her to ease an arm under his shoulders and help him into a position where he can drink. It's far from easy – normally he does the heavy lifting in their relationship – but she gets his head raised and tips a cup to his lips and he takes a couple of pained swallows.

"That's good." She soothes as he grimaces slightly. "Just drink up, and then you can rest."

When the cup is empty, she helps him to get comfortable again and smooths his hair back from his forehead.

"You get some sleep." She recommends, resisting the urge to stroke his cheek. "I need to go see to the others, but I'll be right back."

He looks panicky at that, seeks out her eyes with his own.

"You'll be OK, Bellamy. You're strong." He seems no happier after her attempts to sound reassuring.

"Stay with me."

Well, then. She's not about to argue with that.

…...

Bellamy was one of the last to catch the fever, so he is one of the last to recover, too. Clarke stays by his side the whole time, directs Octavia and Finn and Murphy to give the other patients their water. The doctor in her feels a little guilty for that, but the leader in her reckons it's only sensible to make the health of an individual who is so necessary to their collective survival her priority, and the lover in her is honestly pretty incapable of letting go of his hand.

He pulls through, thank goodness. The following morning, he blinks himself awake, eyes clear and aware, smile small but bright.

"Princess. You stayed."

"Yeah. I – you asked me to. I did wonder whether you might regret that, because now the whole camp has seen me hold your hand for the last day, but I didn't really want to leave." She admits, in a mad rush of honesty.

"I don't regret that." He tells her, meeting her gaze without wavering. "Do you?"

"I don't think so." She tries to make it a statement, but she fears it comes out with a hint of a question in her tone.

"Good. Because I was getting sick of hiding this from everyone."

She blinks, hard, wondering if he's maybe still delirious. " _This_?" She asks, seeking clarification.

"This." He nods slightly against his blankets, still gazing up at her. "You know, on the Ark, I seem to remember that if you kept asking a person to go out with you and you were screwing them, that was called a relationship. Now I know we do things a bit differently on the ground, but surely that concept hasn't changed so much?"

She gulps down disappointment, not at his words but at his timing. "Can you maybe give me that speech again later on, when you've cleaned all that blood off your face?"

He laughs, a confident, carefree sound. "Sure thing, Princess."

He is as good as his word. That evening, as the shadows are lengthening, he walks right up to her where she stands talking to Monty and wraps an arm around her waist.

"Come with me, Princess?"

"Where are we going?"

He just grins at her. "Does it matter?"

As they walk through the camp gates, she's pretty sure she can hear Monty laugh.

He makes it about three words into his pretty speech before she interrupts him with a kiss. It _is_ her idea, this time, and she is proud to own the fact that she initiates it. And he seems only too glad to match her enthusiasm, sucking at her lower lip, grinding his hips against hers, hands everywhere all at once as if he has missed her in the whole two days since they last did this.

She supposes it might be nice to take this slow and savour it, but she's a little too caught up in the heat of the moment and the warmth of his mouth right now. Clothes are ditched, with barely a break in their frantic kissing, and she takes her fingers down to tease his erection.

He breaks away, frowning at her, and she wonders what she has done wrong.

"Not yet." He tells her, reaching for his discarded jacket. He spreads it over the ground, gestures to her to lie down. "There you go."

Apparently she is to expect him to wear his care on his sleeve a little more now they are official, she thinks, grinning to herself as she lies back and fists her hands in the rough fabric. And then he is hovering over her, and then he is thrusting inside of her, and she is urging him on with her heels on his butt and within minutes he is gasping into her mouth and she is telling him _faster_ and he is telling her _yeah_ and she is on the point of falling apart for him.

And then he is emptying himself inside of her, and she is coming with him, too.

…...

They stop hiding it after that, but the kids don't seem to notice all at once. Raven has definitely worked it out, as has Monty, but apparently they have been getting on so well in recent weeks that not everyone thinks it worthy of note that they sit side-by-side at the fire that evening, nor that she disappears into his tent shortly after.

The following morning is a morning like any other. The weather is nothing special, and they need to catch something to eat for supper, and there are supplies to be prepared for winter storage.

Clarke is in the dropship counting out her meagre medical supplies when Finn walks in and invites her out on a hunting expedition. And she is on the point of letting him down gently, of explaining with as much sensitivity as she can muster that she has other plans, when Bellamy walks in and strides over, dropping a possessive kiss on her cheek.

"Not a chance, Spacewalker." He laughs, not unkindly, but with a little arrogance and a lot of joy. "She's coming with me."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
